


Cuckoo's Nest

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Magic, Magical Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill for MPreg idea. Jonathan makes Norrell pregnant to keep him out of trouble while he is at war. </p><p>I had to think my way round this. </p><p>I've never had interest or experience in the having-children thing, so I was going to write an unusual MPreg with world-building instead of having a child character in the story. So it is very definitely an unusual pregnancy, and that's part of the plot. </p><p>Jonathan "knocking up" Mr Norrell to keep him out of trouble doesn't fit my conception of his character. The less good aspects of Jonathan's nature tend towards impetuous recklessness, and I can't see him doing something that cold-bloodedly nasty to his wife, or even to Norrell. So he does something he shouldn't, but he doesn't know what's happening.</p><p>The OP offered "Total bonus points if poor Childermass has to deal with cranky, hormonal Mr Norrell", and that gave me the pairing: the story certainly isn't about a relationship between Jonathan and Mr Norrell.</p><p>Anyway, I hope it's fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuckoo's Nest

Jonathan was plagued by the idea that his tutor was going to be Up to Something while he was away at war, let alone the whole question that Mr Norrell had been far too much in his pockets when they had been living close together. 

After a few pointed suggestions from his wife, he was certain that Norrell did not really want to pass on his knowledge the way he would have assumed. The man had barely been able to hand him a book, and he was Norrell's acknowledged...something, anyway. Apprentice didn't quite cover his ambitions and talents, and Norrell obviously didn't quite want him to be his fellow-magician, even though he was far closer to that position than could previously be imagined. 

It was not that he did not like the man, despite his frequent moments of irritation. Jonathan was generally beforehand with a friendly attitude to anybody who didn't actually approach him with a weapon.  

One evening when he had lingered over dinner with Bell and Childermass, while Norrell had gone to look for a book, he said helplessly, “Why is he like that? It would be so simple for him to do better with other people!” 

Bell said, “Jonathan, you must have been born sweet, if your father could not sour you. It is one of the reasons I love you. But it does not seem quite fair to blame someone for being born less fortunate, even if they're irritating." 

“So he was born…nervous, is that it?” said Jonathan. 

“Yes. I think he sees beauty and comfort in order, but he cannot convey that to others, so people think he is just being… _awful,_ for the sake of it,” said Bell. “His uncle brought him up, and his uncle did not want him. Then he was rich. It would be more surprising if he had managed to achieve such a thing as social address.” 

Childermass nodded. “And he frets about that, as well. He has just enough good sense to realise that other people find him difficult.” 

“But he could at least be kinder!” said Jonathan. 

Childermass sighed at him. “He manages to be his own worst enemy very well. Took me about five years to realise he _had_ any better qualities.”

“Could you enlighten us, Childermass?” said Jonathan. It wasn’t that he precisely disbelieved Childermass, but it would save time if he didn’t have to spend five years waiting to find out. 

“He can be dogged, generous and thoughtful. He is terrified of the… _unreason,_ I suppose, that could arise from misused magic, but he will fight to his last breath to control it. He expects to wear himself out for his Nation, and be given no thanks; he will complain to me about how unfair it is to relieve his feelings, but he will still go on.”

“I could see that, apart from the ‘generous and thoughtful’,” said Jonathan.

Childermass said, “Well, he won’t charm people with giving them thoughtful presents, sir, that’s for sure. But he expects me to do his accounts, and he expects me to pay for anything I need, or the servants need, from his estate. He will give people any thing they need if he thinks it right, and never grudge it that he gets so little thanks. Week after taking me on, he said, 'I will not have you showing me up or catching a cold by going about in that ridiculous coat, Childermass. I shall give you a note-of-hand for my tailor tomorrow morning.'" 

Jonathan gave a snort of laughter. He could definitely hear that from Norrell. “But don’t you see yourself as a servant?” Childermass certainly wasn’t a gentleman. 

“I am Mr Norrell’s man of business,” said Childermass. “I am not a gentleman, but I have responsibilities that ‘the servants’ do not. Even making sure that the servants are well and happy, because Mr Norrell would like them to be, but ‘asn’t got the first idea of how to ask what they need.” 

“Oh, well,” said Jonathan. “He’s lucky to have you, and he’s not a bad old stick, compared to what I thought when he irritated me. And to be honest his liking me doesn’t hurt, even if I am the only human soul he has conceived a liking for!”

Bell and Childermass both reminded him that Norrell liked Childermass, as well. It just showed differently. He could see it once they pointed it out: there was warmth and humour under the sarcasm, and an ability to accept even the spikier parts of each other’s natures. Not just Childermass being understanding, either. Norrell let him say just about anything without disciplining him, and listened to his differences of opinion. 

Then Norrell had come back in, and they had to cease stealthily whitening his name behind his back. But it had taught Jonathan something. And of course, then there was all the magic. He'd been so frustrated that Arabella had not seemed to appreciate it. She was glad, of course, that he had found something he actually wanted to do, but he thought she would have been just as happy with the iron-foundry or the estate, so long as he took it seriously. Norrell really understood how astonishing it was.  

So, yes, he liked Norrell and could work with him. What he mistrusted was whether Norrell would just get on with his work for the Nation while Jonathan was at war, or also fashion bizarre and improbable reasons to hide the entire rest of England's magical heritage as represented by Norrell's library. There was also the question of whether Norrell would invent an equally-bizarre magical crime and prosecute him for it through the Cinque Dragownes (and he supposed if Norrell were flying high on a particular martial success, he might be able to have that court instituted). He didn't really think Norrell _would,_ it was just that he wasn't quite sure Norrell definitely would _not._   

A few days with Norrell subject to a short-but-virulent form of influenza permitted him enough time to fossick about in the library. Childermass did not say anything about it, just favoured him with sharp, amused glances as he rifled through books and sometimes took notes.  

Jonathan paid no attention whatsoever to the works of Francis Sutton-Grove or the works of the other magicians Sutton-Grove had mentioned favourably. This narrowed down his field of study appreciably, and left him dashing among the magicians Norrell considered completely untrustworthy.  

It was hugely enjoyable, of course, in a way his actual education had failed to be. His fingertips fizzed with the sense that exciting things were about to happen, and at one point the light filling the room looked curiously watery, and he could feel a tickling sensation inside his ears.  

In hindsight, he should probably not have bounded excitably ahead like an escaped puppy, but when these oddities encroached upon him, he grabbed the nearest book (the sensation inside his ears almost _scraped_ at him) and went to sit by the table. 

He could not read many of the spells. They were in a number of hands, and a number of languages, awkwardly sewn together, and he took to running his fingertips over them and seeing what stood out. The one that prickled most was called "distraction". Or "fertility". Or "heaviness". Or "filling". Or "warmth". Or "fulfilment". Perhaps, he later thought, the fact that it had many names crossed out and rewritten should have given him pause that he was not quite sure what it did.  

Well, although those sounded generally confusing, they did not sound inimical or threatening. They sounded as though whatever happened was nearer comfort than the opposite. Now, if he were a magician like Norrell, and had to rely on the knowledge in books, that would not be enough for him to risk it. But since he was an excellent instinctual magician, he would trust himself and what was offered him. Especially since "distraction" was there on the page. He smiled rather fondly at the thought of Norrell, maybe, plump and sleepy in his chair by the fire. He knew the man's dedication to duty, so relaxing him was unlikely to leave England undefended. But being calmed and soothed in his off-hours was likely to make life more pleasant for Norrell--and everyone who had to do with him! Practically a public duty.

But since Jonathan was not quite as reckless as certain persons might suggest, he copied it out in his very clearest hand, and made sure it was in a package of notes, signed and dated by himself. Then he settled down to look at it. There was an epitome of...well, of _something_ , possibly of nest-building, there, and a few skimmers of something he was not familiar with in the Yorkshire dialect. It seemed a little unfair that Yorkshire people like Childermass and Norrell had a leg up on the study of magic just because their King a few hundred years ago had gone from Yorkshire into Faerie.  

The rest of it was perfectly clear. Clean water, fresh flowers, some leaves, bark of a particular tree, and a dunnock's egg. At least it was the appropriate season, otherwise he might have to rethink the whole thing. 

He discovered that birds'-nesting was not half so much fun in one's nice clothes, getting bumped and scraped, and being generally out-of-condition since the last time he'd tried it when he was a boy. He nearly gave up a few times, but eventually came back with the precious cargo in a knotted handkerchief. 

Performing the spell put him in a better temper. Spells usually did. It was the concentration of it, where he wouldn't be likely to spill ink, or mislay something, or go off in search of another book, or be distracted by people offering him tea and conversation (Norrell had shewed him a useful spell for discouraging interruptions while he was working).  

He mixed the water and the leaves and the flowers. The result smelt very pleasant, and a dash of sunlight bustled in and glinted on the surface. When he broke the dunnock's egg, there were a few unexpected effects. The eggshell was somewhat harder than he would have expected, and as the glossy wet contents shot into the bowl there was a shimmer over the surface, and a peal of laughter. He normally loved to laugh, and found the sound infectious, but there was something in this laugh that he did not quite like. 

The next day Norrell felt better, so just as well Jonathan had got the business out of the way first. 

 

Jonathan watched Norrell narrowly, looking for effects, until he drew the conclusion that the spell must have misfired, and forgot about it. 

The result appeared to affect him sooner than Norrell. He felt a warm, heavy restlessness. If the feeling had centred around his wife, he would have interpreted it sooner, but it hung around him in the days. 

Norrell kept looking at him, too. Looking at him as though he was the answer to a question that had just been asked. As though there was something he ought to be doing. After a while, he looked warm and restless as well, as though something was taking his mind from his studies. This was surprisingly intriguing, seeing Norrell flushed and blinking, so different from his day-to-day fussiness.  

He looked rather appealing like that, particularly when he took off his glasses because he was having trouble reading, and just lay back in his chair.

"Are you all right like that, sir?" said Jonathan, who wasn't at all used to Mr Norrell being relaxed. 

"Mm?...quite," said Mr Norrell. "Did you know how attractive you look in that colour?"

Jonathan laughed. "Well, Bell, always says it makes me look jaundiced!"

Mr Norrell came up to him to squint down at the garment in question (imperial purple). "Well, I think it's lovely," he said, and stroked Jonathan's chest. 

Jonathan felt dimly that there was something odd about this, and yet he knew his tutor liked him very much. 

Possibly enough to kiss him, although he was sure that had not happened before. The kiss was better than he would have expected from an inexperienced person, although Mr Norrell showed every evidence of wanting to _become_ experienced as soon as possible, from the way he was undoing the front falls of his breeches to let his prick out. 

Jonathan undid his own clothes to hasten that. Apparently Mr Norrell _really_ liked to look at him; he moaned, and his prick leaked. He grabbed himself with one hand, as if trying to restrain himself by force. 

"What would you like?" asked Jonathan. There was something odd about this, and yet he liked to be liked, and poor Mr Norrell must have been wanting him for some time. 

Mr Norrell bent over a chair, and Jonathan repeated his question. 

"Just shove it in me," said Mr Norrell. 

Jonathan, who had been better brought-up, sat Mr Norrell up in the chair and sucked him, which was apparently far less pleasing than he would have expected. 

Failing that, he frigged him, which was likewise nowhere near getting a result. 

Instead, Mr Norrell bent over again and snarled, "Shove it in me hard!"

Since his best moves had failed, Jonathan provided as requested. Mr Norrell was gloriously tight, and Jonathan felt that after doing his best he could be forgiven for doing the seduction later. So he just grunted, went in as hard as he could, and spent in a long fierce rush. 

_That_ was what did it for Norrell, without so much as a touch. He came off, hard and noisily, as though Jonathan had been holding back from giving him relief (which was most unfair). 

Jonathan felt oddly protective, as he looked down on Norrell all relaxed and dishevelled. He was very glad Childermass happened to be out on an errand, as he coaxed Norrell gently to his bed. To his surprise, Norrell got further (if rather sleepily) demanding in bed. Jonathan went along with it. He had given Norrell the desire, and was about to leave him alone in it: the least he could do was offer what he might.

Norrell stretched out on the bed, crooning softly. He resisted attempts to roll him over and soothe his desire with tongue or hand. After a few minutes, Jonathan figured out that although that would be simpler, he wanted to be enjoyed the way Jonathan had satisfied him the first time. Eased up to present his bottom over a pillow, Norrell made a pleasing enough figure for him to tilt his lance at a second time. Jonathan wondered at how they roused again so readily: let alone Norrell's age, it was good going for _him._  

He slipped in comfortably, and Norrell sighed softly. 

"Is that good?" he asked. 

Norrell didn't answer, just rocked back against him. He nibbled softly at Norrell's neck, and that did not cause any displeasure either. He liked the feel of Norrell's skin warm against him, and the inner flesh suddenly impatiently tight, as he began to thrust. 

Norrell was almost whining, apparently not in distress but impatience, given that as he went harder Norrell grunted, and he pushed himself back against Jonathan hard. 

Jonathan obligingly pulled him up a bit by the hips, and Norrell panted and wriggled on his cock restlessly. But however he pulled and rubbed and tugged at the man's prick, he did not seem to get any closer to finishing him off. 

"No, not that. Do it!--put it in me!" Norrell demanded furiously, and Jonathan remembered that the first time Norrell seemed to be most excited by Jonathan spending in him.

"Want me to come in you, leave you all full and wet?" Jonathan whispered obligingly, suiting the action to the words. 

Norrell gave a deep groan of relief, jerking and shuddering under Jonathan. This was a little painful, but Jonathan held still and let him enjoy it. He liked the greedy little sighs Norrell made as he finished off, as if Jonathan had given him the most rapturous pleasure imaginable and he couldn't do anything but take it. The expression on his face certainly looked like that. 

By the time Jonathan had carefully pulled out a few minutes later, he was a little surprised that Norrell was apparently sound asleep. Almost, anyway. As he bent impulsively to kiss Norrell on the cheek, Norrell smiled, and said, "Jonathan," through a yawn, and then there he was asleep. 

Jonathan felt unexpectedly touched: after all the mistrust, it was rather...sweet to be so completely trusted, and to feel so wanted and so cared-for. He wiped both their pricks: Norrell was clearly in no condition to clean up.  

It was only when he left the room that he remembered he was a married man. This was very shocking. He had had a fair idea that Norrell had some form of attraction to him, but this had never troubled him because he knew Norrell would not embarrass him with an approach, and he knew, well, Norrell couldn't hold a candle to his wife. 

It was then he remembered the spell. He felt unexpectedly guilty. Partly for breaking his vows (although that certainly had not been intentional), but partly because he was due to leave tomorrow, leaving Norrell with an unexplained experience that, if delicious, could hardly be anything but disquieting. He had not intended to upset Norrell, although he was uneasily conscious that he had been somewhat reckless in jumping into an unexplained spell.   
   
   
   
   
Mr Norrell awoke, with a somewhat surprizing feeling in his body, as though he had been thoroughly and generously pleasured the night before. Assuming it to be a dream, he felt at himself and found nothing to clean up. Then he remembered. 

He was very uneasy. He knew his own character, and that however much he was tempted he wouldn't make an approach to a married man. He was fairly sure that Mr Strange was strongly attached to his wife, and had certainly never approached him. But somehow he had hazy but convinced memories that Mr Strange had...enjoyed him. Twice. And neither of them had so much as mentioned, or appeared to think, of any reason why not to.  

So it must have been a dream. Except when he felt at himself behind, he was relaxed and somewhat sore, and...damp, as if something had happened.  

He could not make sense of it, and he did not know why his feelings were so insistent on being untroubled when (if?) something disturbing had happened. As soon as he shut his eyes again, he was full of smooth, good, happy feelings. Was that his body overriding his mind? Presumably he _ought_ to worry! Stealthily, instead, he began to rub himself against the sheets, remembering how good it had been to have Jonathan in him, thinking of Jonathan's seed filling him, until he spent again. Third time since last night--most unlikely!--had to go to sleep again.  

When he woke again, he remembered that Mr Strange was leaving today. He could not understand why he'd lain in bed indulging himself when he really ought to be getting up and ready to say goodbye.  

He managed to clean himself of any incriminating odours or dampness before Lucas came in to dress him, at least there was that.  

In his best clothes (which meant his least comfortable ones, that had been in his wardrobe for years because they were too stiff or difficult to do up) he went outside to Mr Strange’s house.  

He was just in time to see him off, in the street. It was crowded, and awkward, and there was definitely not enough privacy to ask him the questions he would have liked to have asked. Not that he had much idea of those: "did you bespell me without my knowledge?" was too accusatory without having a clear enough idea that Mr Strange _had;_ and "do you remember what happened yesterday?" could be absolutely crushing if it turned out that Mr Strange did not because it was only his own mind failing him. 

The most logical supposition was that he himself had cast a spell to have Mr Strange, because it was the only way he could. Yet every time he considered it, he was sure of the utter certainty that he would not use Mr Strange that way. He was capable, no doubt, of a number of bad things. He especially preferred not to think of the Fairy, or Lady Pole, and (when Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight were not there to puff up his sense of importance) he was often just a little uneasy about whether English Magic was best served by a magician who might die with so much that he had not passed on. But he was completely certain that he would not have enjoyed Mr Strange’s favours against his will. Yet Mr Strange was so attached to his wife, and would have little use for his old tutor as an object of erotic fancy, so evidently it could not have been him, either. And that exhausted the current stock of English magicians, unless one were to count such a creature as Vinculus, and however mischievous he was, this was not his style. Besides, if Vinculus were capable of such a powerful level of influence, he would not lead the life of a near-beggar on London's streets.   

He still wanted to know. Mr Strange was by no means less attractive now he had (possibly) satisfied his desires, and no doubt Mr Strange was going to go to war and forget all about him (he was quite right about this; there was so much going on in the Peninsula that Mr Strange had difficulty finding moments to consider his wife, let alone the odd, dreamlike evening with Mr Norrell).  

"Mr Strange! Mr Strange, I pray you take care of my books!" was the best he could manage. And he meant something more intimate, that he should probably not say. And Mr Strange was still determined to go. Mr Norrell would definitely miss him. 

 

He did not miss him as much as he would have expected. Soon after Mr Strange had left, Mr Norrell had returned to his accustomed habits of talking to Childermass. It was more difficult in London, what with Mr Lascelles, Mr Drawlight, and the general social whirl, but Childermass managed to catch times of day when they could talk, and it was reassuringly just like home. 

Also, it turned out that Childermass had distinct ideas about the magazine and what Norrell was doing. Although Norrell bristled at being criticised, Childermass had the knack of it after all this time, of how to tell him when something needed to be changed. It was frankly a relief. His two fellow-workers on the magazine were far too respectful, and sometimes he thought he needed to be told things, and they never would. Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight would tell him when he was too modest, which was agreeable, but would never tell him when he was too full of self-consequence, or his ideas were impractical. Childermass would. He also told Mr Norrell that Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight did not have his best interests at heart. Childermass was used to working with him. He did not have to say much to set Mr Norrell off on the right track. 

Then there was Mr Strange’s person. Well, he'd always found Mr Strange engaging, and had expected to miss him considerably. But without the constant reminder of his presence, he simply adjusted, and found himself thinking not a few saucy thoughts about Childermass. Well, to be quite honest, he always had. Although Childermass' personal charms had not influenced him in taking the man on, he'd spent a while imagining what it would be like. He thought Childermass might know what he was doing. 

The one single point he would have thought would make him unable to forget Mr Strange, the idea that he (Mr Strange) had taken his (Mr Norrell's) virginity, was associated with an odd, dreamlike quality. Three days after Mr Strange had left, Mr Norrell had ceased to think about it, and fully expected never to think about it again. 

He was feeling oddly emotional, which was not comfortable. One day he thought of Henry Lascelles talking him out of his respect for Childermass, and turning the man off without a character, in the most unjust of ways.  

It made him weep, and it hadn't even happened ( _yet_ , thought a grim part of his mind). 

Perhaps it was because Mr Norrell's health was not at its best. He was getting oddly-plump, in a way which was difficult to understand because he was currently troubled by one of his digestive upsets. He frequently felt far too sick to eat much, particularly in the earlier part of the day. Childermass coaxed him with sweet gruel, and foods he normally liked cut up, but Mr Norrell often could not face food. Frustratingly, he sometimes felt quite hungry until he sat to eat, and suddenly a waft of powerful smells would assail him from outside, and he would feel worse. As usual when he felt sick, he didn't cope very well. He spent several hours leaning over a bucket while waves of nausea passed over him, never being entirely sure he was not just about to cast up his accounts. On at least one occasion, he then vomited when he stood up, because the change in posture affected him. Childermass said he should have been cross with him for making a mess, but Mr Norrell looked so woebegone he didn't have the heart. 

When he _did_ eat, it wasn't necessarily food. Childermass looked on with slight horror as Mr Norrell crunched coal, ate pitch as though it were treacle, or bit into a burning candle with every evidence of enjoyment. Looking into Mr Norrell's mouth and finding no sign of damage, Childermass seemed to figure out that something had happened. 

 

"Have you been casting anything strange lately, sir?" asked Childermass.  

"'Strange', Childermass?" Mr Norrell gave a slight chuckle. "Well, it's odd that you should ask me, because something unusual...might have happened just the day before Mr Strange went away. Oh, but it can't have done! I had it clear in my mind that neither of us would have done it, and a few days after that, it all seemed like a dream."

Childermass said, "What was it?"

Mr Norrell said, "I trust you as much as I've ever trusted anyone, Childermass. Would you understand if I said I have...inclinations that might be construed as a criminal matter?"

Childermass said, "Well I've certainly noticed that you have a lot of paintings of naked men on your wall, if that's what y'mean."

"Mythological figures, Childermass. That doesn't prove any thing." Mr Norrell was mildly perturbed that something he had considered impossible for people to notice might not be quite that discreet. If it were any one but Childermass, he would be a good deal more worried.  

"Didn't say it bothered me," said Childermass. He paused. "Been with both myself." The thought of Childermass with someone, man or woman, was remarkably distracting.  

Mr Norrell did his best to explain the curious events of That Night. "Well, it was lovely, not that I have any thing to compare it to, and if, in fact, any thing ever happened at all. Because two days later it seemed more like a dream than something I remembered." 

"Could that have been because it was magic?" said Childermass sharply. 

"Well, it _could,_ and I thought of the idea at the time, but I'm certain that neither of us would have done so," said Mr Norrell. "Which leaves me at a loss, since England is not so rich in magicians that any body else could have done it. Vinculus has mischief, but certainly not power, or he would not be leading the life of a beggar."

"So you know you didn't do it, and Vinculus didn't do it," said Childermass slowly. "Why are you so certain Mr Strange didn't do it?" 

"Because he would not play his wife false, nor break my heart," said Mr Norrell simply. "He loves his wife, and he cares enough for me as a friend that he would not approach me casually, knowing it would upset my feelings."

"That's presuming he knew it was a seduction," said Childermass. "I saw him get very busy in here when you had the 'flu. He was looking for something. Best guess: he thought you'd get a fit of nerves while he was at war, and decide to hide every trace of what you know of English Magic."

Mr Norrell sighed. "Or (heaven help me) try to reinstitute the Cinque Dragownes against him. He had reason to worry that if I brooded about him I might have done something stupid. Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight seem to have something against him, and leaving them to control me might be unfortunate. So he might have been in search of a distraction to keep me busy until he returned."

It did not take them long to find the package of documentation Mr Strange had left. Since it was written in a clearer hand than he usually managed, it was easy for Mr Norrell to read. "Oh, the _fool!"_ he burst out. "He should have understood that there are implications of seduction in this spell." 

Childermass laughed. "And fertility. Just as well you're a man, sir!" 

Mr Norrell's face went cold with a sudden rush of feeling, as he realised what his symptoms might mean. 

"Sir?" said Childermass.  

Mr Norrell said, "I regret to inform you that in the case of a magician, and a powerful spell, one's sex is not so absolute a proscription against such a result."

"So you're..."

To keep from hearing a number of demotic locutions about his state, Mr Norrell nodded briskly and said, "With child, yes."   
Words were apparently insufficient to proclaim Childermass' astonishment. He whistled, and his surprize clearly shewed on his face. That above all brought it home to Mr Norrell the situation he was in: he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Childermass had done any such thing. 

Childermass looked a little guilty. "Sorry, sir." 

"No need, Childermass. It _is_ surprizing. Although I'd be obliged to you to keep it to yourself."

"Of course, sir," said Childermass. 

Mr Norrell was feeling a little bit wobbly. "At least women are accustomed, and they have the fathers with them. For the last week, I've been feeling so t-terribly lonely, and I have no idea why."

Childermass sighed, and opened his arms. "Come here, then, sir."  

Mr Norrell went into his arms and rested his head on Childermass' shoulder, and cried. He still felt a stranger to himself; he had rarely wept when he was a child, let alone since. He kept trying to stop crying for long enough to apologise, but Childermass drew him close, and assured him all the women he'd known who were pregnant had sudden rushes of feeling. Nothing to do with their personality normally, that would return when the child was born. 

So he cried himself out (embarrassed and slightly aroused to be this close to Childermass), and dried his eyes. At least, with Childermass' strong arms around him, he didn't feel so lonely. If he'd been himself, he'd have been thinking about having Childermass; he supposed it was lucky that he was so constrained by his condition. 

He was also aware of his...chest, pressed against Childermass. It was not that he had breasts. Not quite. But there was a slight swelling, and a distinct sensitivity, around his nipples. Not something he'd ever have expected.

 

"Childermass, what with the shock, I'm feeling somewhat hungry. Could you possibly find me a little something?" He felt the relief at knowing that he never need be very specific with Childermass. Whenever he would like something, Childermass would have a good idea of what it might be. It was a great deal of comfort.  

Childermass brought him toast points with little bits of cold chicken, and a red sauce. 

"Childermass, I am not a great enthusiast for sauce, particularly if it's strong."

"It's very spicy. But I wondered, given the difference in your tastes now," said Childermass. "If you don't like it with the chicken, you can try it with your dessert. Don't eat your pudding until you've eaten your dinner," he added sternly. 

Mr Norrell ate the toast and chicken. It tasted far less appealing than usual, but he could smell something tasty--no doubt the dessert in the little covered dish. 

It turned out to be a small dish of crumbly little fragments of coal, with pitch added as a sauce. It smelt delicious: pitch smelt rather like chocolate sauce would when he was in his right mind. He tipped the spicy sauce over his dessert and ate it. At last, something with flavour! With his altered taste, the spicy sauce tasted sweet and creamy.  

He ate with his eyes closed, nearly moaning a little at quite how delicious it was.

Childermass sighed. "Promise to eat food with food in it before you eat your treats, sir. I'm sure your body still needs to."

Mr Norrell could see the sense in that, and nodded. 

"You have soot round your mouth."

For the next few months Mr Norrell would happily eat normal food followed by a little dish of something else. Except when he had company to dinner. "I hate company," he complained, "and now it means I can't eat any nice food." Childermass sighed, and brought him some candles to nibble, and a glass of lamp-oil to drink. 

Mr Norrell neatly bit the burning top part off the candles. He liked the taste of fire, which seemed to fizz on his tongue. 

"You could do quite a decent flame-swallowing act like that, sir," said Childermass, rather admiringly.  

Mr Norrell shuddered. No doubt if he had to have recourse to yellow-curtained showmanship, he would make a good fist of it, but _really...!_  

 

Over the rest of his term, Mr Norrell was oppressed by a particular feeling--or lack of feeling. He had no maternal instinct whatsoever, and felt rather that he was inhabited by a parasite. This was a worrying thing. Given his uncertainty about Mr Strange's involvement, the most he could say about the thing's parentage was that it was himself. And he was sure most mothers-to-be didn't think of it as "the thing". What was wrong with him? It would be downright immoral to leave it to be stillborn or in an orphanage. It was his responsibility--and it was nothing to do with him! He refused to let it ruin his life and work, yet what could he do with it? 

Then it might not be altogether unlikely that the instinct would arrive with the child; he had read of such cases. If it happened to him, he would do all the necessary things a parent might do. But he was sure that it would not entirely replace his personality and habits. He would devote his entire life to the child, barely having an uninterrupted hour with a book—and he would resent the child horribly. It would be unfair to him, and it would be unfair to the child. 

Then there were the day-to-day irritations. He was getting decidedly plump, and couldn't figure out why, because it was early in the pregnancy and he was eating relatively lightly (as far as food went: he was probably eating more than would be advisable in inedible items). In preparation, he cast a spell to loosen his clothes, and then one to use his choice of loose clothes while appearing to look no different.

He was sulky. Although when he was honest about it, he realised he was normally somewhat sulky, and Childermass had to deal with it, it was worse in his condition. Especially when he then realised he'd been treating Childermass _quite unconscionably,_  and broke down in floods of tears because obviously Childermass was going to leave, and quite right too! Then Childermass coaxed him to say what was on his mind, and he cried all over poor Childermass again while he explained. Really bawling: ugly tears and a runny nose, so he had to get Childermass to pass him a handkerchief.

Sulks, tearfulness, and a lot of fretting, although when he asked Childermass he was told that the sulks and the fretting weren't too far above normal levels.  

He didn't know what he'd have done without Childermass. He needed someone to rely on, and to talk to, and to hold. And to be honest he doubted he'd have borne it without being able to cry on Childermass' shoulder and be comforted. When he felt sick, Childermass would sit on his bed and gently stroke his hair (never his back; when he was unwell, stroking his back made him retch again). 

In the afternoons, when the sickness had eased a bit, Childermass brought him needlework. If he were better with his hands, it would have been a comfort to have something he could do, but he kept having to take out his stitching until he wanted to cry. Again.  

They read books to each other, which was a great deal more successful in soothing Norrell and keeping him in place. He enjoyed telling Childermass about his favourite and least-favourite practitioners of the last few centuries. He only realised when Childermass told him so that he was talking to the man about magic just the way he would have spoken to Mr Strange.

"What of it?" he said. "I can be much surer with you than with Mr Strange that you're not going to take the Lanchester down the garden and talk to rooks. I know our opinions differ on the old King, but I believe we respect each other?"

"Aye," said Childermass. "Didn't take me above three years to realise that you spent ten years trying to honour the King, and I cannot fault you that you became discouraged after so much effort with no success."

"I cannot, I suppose, fault you for not coming to the same conclusion, since you were not a magician trying to bespeak him."

Mr Norrell apologised for boring him, but Childermass said magic was a fascinating subject. He reassured Mr Norrell (hugging him) that he had no intention of setting up as a rival magician, but he liked to find out what Mr Norrell found interesting. 

In return, Childermass read poetry to him. Mr Norrell knew nothing about the world of verse. He found it surprisingly pleasing, particularly when Childermass found a funny one to read him.

 

In the second three months, Mr Norrell felt a good deal better. The sickness had worn off, and he was actually getting his appetite back for food as well as treats (which pleased Childermass).

That wasn't the only thing he was getting his appetite back for. He was trying to stop crying on Childermass so much because now, in Childermass' arms, he wanted to squirm, and kiss, and rub.  

He wasn't going to have Mr Strange again, obviously, and it wasn't fair to ask Childermass, and he wanted someone desperately. He wanted the desire to be satisfied, or to go away, as long as he was comfortable again. 

Childermass sat him down after a week of that, and asked what was troubling him, and "you could tell old John Childermass any thing, sir. I coped with the tears, and the pregnancy, and the eating funny things, so I doubt there's much left to shock me." 

"I want what Mr Strange will not be willing to give me," Mr Norrell stated baldly. 

"Meanin' you want Mr Strange, sir?"

"Not quite. I suspect it is one of those odd, ah, emotional surges. I...I want...want a man to..." 

Childermass nodded. "You want to have it, but you're not thinking about a particular person?" 

"Yes," Mr Norrell admitted, in a small voice. It was a shameful thing to admit to. Especially the occasional feeling that he’d present his arse to damn-near any men who proved willing, up to and including the French. He said that, in an even tinier voice.

"Don't worry," said Childermass.  

"I should like to know why not to!" he flared suddenly. "It is not as though I can safely go to a brothel and admit my requirements. And...and I get a little lonely sometimes." When he awoke at dead of night from an excitable dream, wet and panting, he always wanted to cry because there was no-one there for him to hold.

"I don't see why I shouldn't do it," said Childermass thoughtfully. "It's not as though it's harder work than dealing with all the tears and the sulks, and the fretting. Might say it’s more fun, in fact. Especially if you don't fret so much once you're getting your needs met."

"Would you do it for me more than once? Because I think I should like it," said Mr Norrell. His toes were curling at the thought of having Childermass. He was not sure if he could bear to do it, then give it up. 

"Do it _with_ you, sir," said Childermass. "It wouldn't just be me doing you a service." 

“Are you _sure?”_ said Mr Norrell, doubtfully. 

Childermass snorted. “You’re no oil-painting. but you’re not _that_ unattractive, sir!”

Mr Norrell liked the thought of that, very much. “I n-need you now, Childermass.” he said, with the slight betraying stammer he got when he was trying very hard to sound worldly, or as if he knew what he was doing.

Childermass said, “I think I like that. Will you come to bed, sir?”

“But it’s the middle of the day!” said Mr Norrell, scandalised, and having difficulty keeping up with events. 

“Then would you like me to bend you over that chair and ‘ave you. sir?” Childermass demanded bluntly. “Would that be more appropriate to the time of day?” 

Mr Norrell hurriedly went to the chair and bent over. It was uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to put him off—which was a considerable endorsement of quite how eager he was by now. Childermass had promised he would likely bear quite a small baby, given the way his shape did not seem to have altered quite as much as many people’s did, but bending over anything wasn’t comfortable, with the lump in the way. 

“Let me undo you first,” said Childermass, so Mr Norrell sighed, got up again, let Childermass undo the lacings of his clothes, and bent over again, pushing his clothes out of the way and muttering crossly because that reminded him his belly was altogether too uncomfortable in this position. 

Childermass bent over to whisper in Mr Norrell’s ear, “I really like this, just so you know.” Mr Norrell moaned. “But I’d better go and get something nice and wet to do the job properly.” 

“Use your tongue,” said Mr Norrell. 

“Nice thought, not too practical,” said Childermass, and went out of the room, returning five minutes later with a jar of salve.

Mr Norrell was sitting up in the chair looking distinctly ruffled. “I’ve gone off the boil now, Childermass. Because you weren’t properly prepared.” He picked up a book and rather theatrically settled to the business of Ignoring Childermass. This was easier than it might otherwise have been because his arousal was somewhat hidden by his condition.

“Sulky little bugger, are we?” breathed Childermass, bending down to him and breathing in his ear again. Of course it re-awakened his interest considerably, particularly when Childermass nibbled his ear-lobe and said, “If you really want me to go away, I will.” 

Norrell sighed. “Of course I don’t. But I have to admit bending over a chair isn’t ideal in my condition." He had managed to conceal it from a casual gaze, but pressure was another matter. 

Childermass nodded. “Off we go to your bed, sir. I’ll take the salve.” 

In the bedroom, they could stretch out on the bed. Childermass teased at Mr Norrell's newly-sensitive nipples, and he squirmed and pushed what there was of his "breasts" into the other man's hands. Then, feeling the urge for something more decisive, Mr Norrell curled up on his side with Childermass behind him, and Childermass' long fingers sliding in and out of him, and _oh! that was nice!_ and it made him want more.

Soon he was having more, Childermass curled around him, prick gently probing while the fingers made sure he was open. It was not at all like losing his virginity, which had felt satisfyingly smooth and easy despite the fact that Jonathan hadn't really known to open or stretch him. 

It felt more awkward and inconvenient--and much more real. They had to actually talk to establish what hurt acceptably, what hurt too much, and how to open him. Childermass was gentle and careful with him, but didn't stop. 

They could have taken even longer about it, but the awkwardness didn't mean he didn't want it dreadfully. So they settled with Childermass' prick rocking gently into him, and Childermass' hand playing with his (Mr Norrell's) own prick, and he was breathing hard, and saying, "Yes, _please!"_ as he had it, fierce and reckless and...

...suddenly collapsing soaked in the bed, hearing Childermass' breath hard, feeling Childermass finish in him. He was wet all over with seed and sweat, and thoroughly satisfied in a way he hadn't been by his original adventure. It lacked that dreamlike quality. Did that mean he was losing his virginity to Childermass? He liked that thought, very much. 

 

In the middle of the night, as if the experience had started something, Mr Norrell had some rather unpleasant cramps. He was worried about his digestive system, until Childermass started him worrying about his condition. However little he wanted to carry to term, a miscarriage would probably be most injurious to his health. 

But although the cramps in his middle lasted nearly all night, they did not appear to be digestive in origin, nor to produce blood. When he awoke in the morning, he had the feeling that something had settled, had somehow moved. Unfortunately, if it was the baby, it was doing its best to dance on his bladder, but it didn’t appear to want to be on the way out.

There was something odd when he got up. A dampness between his thighs. He made a face. 

"What is it?" said Childermass. 

He muttered something about needing to wash, but gave a small yelp when he wiped himself. "Childermass, I am not as I was."

"Eh?" said Childermass. 

"The...equipment has changed," said Mr Norrell.

Childermass would accept nothing less than full inspection, which somehow turned into him crying again because he felt like a monster, and Childermass saying very practically that no, he did not feel like a monster, and him disbelieving Childermass entirely until Childermass gently pushed his thighs apart and slid into him. 

"See?" said Childermass. "Not a monster. It's a very nice one," he added, with a few appreciative slow, rocking thrusts. 

This made Mr Norrell abruptly much less interested in working out whether he was now male, female, or something else, and much more interested in whether Childermass could keep doing it. His prick was awkwardly trapped between his belly and Childermass, now Childermass was pressing down on him, and it was lovely. 

He moaned, but then he said, "It won't hurt the...thing, will it?"

"I think you're all right for now, but tell me if it hurts," said Childermass. 

 It was making him sweat, which had him sliding against Childermass. That with skin, and that voluptuous slippery stroke inside him; suddenly he felt boneless with heat and desire and satisfaction. 

"Nice," breathed Childermass. "You're just as good as both."

"Mm?" said Mr Norrell. 

"Your prick's where the...extra bit is in a woman, ready to be played-with." He suited the action to the words, and Mr Norrell moaned appreciatively. 

"Extra bit?" asked Mr Norrell. Apparently women had a thing like a tiny prick, and it was something they _really_ enjoyed attention to. 

"Oh, I should not like that," said Mr Norrell. "I should not like something that small. One might mislay it at an opportune moment."

Childermass sniggered. "Lots of women say it's their sweethearts can't find it!"

"I am used to the size of my virile member, Childermass, and would not like to adjust it. Particularly not downwards."

"Well, you certainly like _me_ being bigger!" said Childermass. Mr Norrell moaned. He had to admit the size of it was exciting, setting off any number of disgraceful little fantasies. 

He was panting, now. Childermass was in him, and Childermass was stroking him (awkwardly and with difficulty since they were so pressed-together), and it was so very... He told Childermass how unlike it was to losing his virginity to Mr Strange, and Childermass said interestedly, "Was that because you're...playing with a different deck, sir?" and he smacked Childermass for his cheek.

"Not in the least. But I seemed to have a very different taste. I did not want him to touch me at all...when one might have presumed that was the object of the exercise." He'd certainly presumed before that that he would object in the strongest terms to not getting any of the attention. At least half of it. 

"Hah!" said Childermass. "And what _did_ you want?"

 "I wanted him to...do it. In me. As soon as he spent I went off as well. Quite hard." It certainly hadn't meant he didn't enjoy it.

"But I would not have expected it to be so one-sided, and that I'd enjoy it that way. And I did it again the same way, straight after."

 "Obvious, when you think about it," said Childermass. "The spell wanted you to stay still and accept t'other man's seed, to have best possible chance of bearing."

"Mm," said Mr Norrell. "I suppose. But I'm back to normal now." He wriggled crossly because Childermass had stopped rubbing him while he was thinking. 

"All right, all right!" said Childermass. "If you wriggle too hard I'll fall right off."

Obediently he stayed quite still and let Childermass handle him. It didn't take long; even this wicked conversation about male organs, female organs, and what he'd been doing with Mr Strange--well, it had him well primed, and then Childermass pried them apart a bit, and slid a hand round his wet prick, and he came off. It made him cry again, because the sensation was so sweet-sharp in him, tears rolling down his face, and he thought, _I am seriously exasperated with the tears._

He said that to Childermass, and Childermass said, "Want me to show you one of the good bits of being part-woman?"

Which led to Childermass' nice long fingers playing between his legs, leaving his exhausted male organ alone as they neatly rubbed one particular place inside him, and he gushed like a fountain and made embarrassing noises. Neither of them were entirely sure it was the same thing as a physical climax. Both of them enjoyed it. 

"Childermass? We still have not established why I should have a female organ in the first place. I suppose the cramps may have been my body remaking itself."

"Well, you _are_ pregnant, sir, and it's better than the alternatives."

"Which are?"

"If it had to be cut by a surgeon because there was no way out. Or if it had to come out where it went in." 

Mr Norrell shuddered. "Fascinating," he said more happily. "I may be the sole verifiable instance since ancient times of _actual_ hysteria."

"Eh?" said Childermass.

"The wandering womb. Mine may have started at the back and finished at the front."

Indeed, the middle part of his term was the happiest Mr Norrell became in his pregnancy. Instead of weeping and sickness, he was most inclined to lying lazily about, asking for Childermass to bring him food (or inedible food), books, or himself. The relaxation and satisfaction of it was unlike any thing in his previously small, fretful life.

At first, he was apologetic and doubtful about whether he was asking too much. "Childermass, you would tell me if I was asking too much, too often?" he said, after a particularly busy day.

Childermass said, "Well, I was right. Keeping you happy and satisfied is much easier than dealing with you when you're moody and miserable and feeling sick."

"Yes, but I had you last night, and I...ah, think I want to do it again. But it might be too much, or you might not want to, or I might be a little too sore." He was sure he was too sore. He was just trying to work out whether that would stop him.

Childermass looked thoughtful. "Well, I suppose you might be a bit sore after four goes yesterday. You randy little bugger!" he added, slapping Mr Norrell on the bottom. 

"Well, I _suppose..."_ said Mr Norrell, rather wishing he hadn't been overdoing it. 

"Come on, then. Your prick's not too sore, is it, and nor's mine." So they ended up sucking each other to slow, lazy pleasure, and then Childermass brought in a plate of hot rolls that they shared, and a dish of burning candle-ends, coal and scrunched-up rags that they decidedly did not, although his master pronounced it excellent. 

 

Mr Norrell still had his worries about the result of his condition, and was still most dubious that he was a fit person to care for a child, yet his body seemed as determined that he be comforted and relieved as it had been determined to make him sick and miserable earlier. Childermass was an ever-present comfort, he had his books, and he walked in his grounds every day for light exercise and to collect materials for spells. 

To further ease the situation, he had cast the illusion that he had a quite serious illness that would persist for months. None of his worldly acquaintances would have a clew that he could be pregnant, and it only took one meeting to have his closest remaining associates avoiding the apparent visible contagion. He felt that without Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight fighting for influence over him (and fighting to diminish the influence of either Childermass or Mr Strange) he was coming out from under a long shadow. The relatively little work he did manage to do was much improved by Childermass, who taught him how to judge his own work better, and come out with final drafts that communicated what he was trying to say. Childermass was merciless in pursuit of what he was trying to say, and held him to account for any inconsistencies. Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight sent him long and frequent letters, but without their presence to back that up, this was not too heavy an influence. 

He had two meetings with politicians every week, not at all surprised that unlike Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight they wanted him to get things done rather than increase his own consequence, and theirs by extension. Childermass reported that the gossip was now that he did so much less work, but to so much better effect. 

"To be frank, much of the honour is yours, Childermass," said Mr Norrell. "I know I need direction, but I find it difficult to accept. Then if I find myself writing a page on the morning, and crossing most of it in the evening, I get myself all tangled-up with did I cross out the right bits. But when I talk to you it's easier to see which bits to keep."

"We're doing good work, and you're happy, and I make you happy," said Childermass. "This is the best you've been for years."

Mr Norrell burst into tears, and this time not happily.

Childermass coaxed him, and soon had the whole disgraceful business out of him.

"It's not just your fault, sir," he said, after a while. "I should have seen that something had gone very wrong, and you were not equal to it. I had my head turned a bit: I saw you with so much consequence and I didn't remember to take a moment aside and ask you how you were doing."

"But my entire work is predicated on not doing what I in fact did," said Mr Norrell. "I disgraced myself, and I disgraced English Magic, and when I realised I was unable to improve things I went on concealing matters. I may not have much fondness for women, but insisting Lady Pole was mad to hide my own misuse of my art was not my finest hour."

"You should have said what you did, and asked us for help," said Childermass. 

"You?"

"Me and Mr Strange. I've got the wit to see when things might go wrong, and Mr Strange has a lot of magical strength, from what you say. Three of us together, without Lascelles and Drawlight, and with all your books, I'd say we have a good chance."

"Even against him? He is a most fearful creature, Childermass."

They left it at that, for then, because the relief of crying on Childermass' shoulder soon turned into further distractions, and he forgot all about the Fairy once he had Childermass in him. 

Mr Norrell sent Mr Strange a letter. Might Mr Strange be able to alter the spell for scrying with a silver bowl to allow verbal communication two ways? As far as he knew this was impossible, but information was coming in from the Peninsula suggesting Mr Strange was inventive. He had a matter that needed discussion. 

An evening some weeks later he sat in front of his bowl and told Mr Strange he was in some trouble for using an unknown spell with an unknown result. Mr Strange apologised, and said that as soon as he'd done it he realised it wasn't right, and how had Mr Norrell been doing?

"Well, apart from being _pregnant_ I am as you would expect, Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell. That entailed a lot of explanation, and then they dealt with the pregnancy spell, and found out at least one disconcerting fact. When Mr Strange added the details about the hard eggshell, the shimmer, and the sound of laughter, Mr Norrell found this very suggestive with a dunnock's egg. "Of a certainty, Mr Strange, I am sure we have a cuckoo's egg!"

Neither Mr Strange nor Childermass were clear on what that might mean.

"I am not certain what effect it will have, but there is a suggestion that it will not be a natural birth, and may in fact be an anomaly. Perhaps a soulless child." He shivered deeply. Although some sort of soulless...thing would certainly deal with his problems by allowing him not to love the child, it was absolutely terrifying to have to consider what might emerge from his own body. 

Childermass promised he would kill the thing if that proved necessary.

"Oh, I say!" protested Mr Strange. But both Childermass and Mr Norrell had clearer ideas of what sort of unnatural thing should not be permitted to live, and told him so. 

But what about the meaning of the pregnancy? Mr Strange was certain Mr Norrell would be terribly in love with him, because how could he not? and Childermass put his arm round Mr Norrell and said he was bearing up very well, and he wasn't in need of someone to love and care for him. Mr Strange looked a little foolish, and somewhat more relieved. "I'm very glad for you, sir. I thought you had developed a _tendre_ for me, and would have been fretting."

Childermass said, "It was the nature of the spell. It seemed like a dream, and then I was around for him to talk to, and cry on, and bed."

"Childermass, there is no need to go airing my personal business." His toes twitched. Childermass had dealt with his personal business very well. "We do have an important matter we need to talk to you about," Mr Norrell added, and explained it. 

Mr Strange took it seriously. He said he would not be able to work with them on getting rid of the Fairy while he was at war, but as soon as he was back in England he would be entirely at their service. 

So time passed. He was getting Childermass to bed him about as much as he wanted, he was eating enough, and the terrible thing that he had done was going to be addressed.

In the days, he did his work for the Nation. Rather to his surprise he had actually completed the sea-beacons, and was doing a few commissions. If he got his work done quickly enough, Childermass would take him to bed again, which was an excellent incentive. 

Dinner was lovely--his actual appetite for food was picking up at this stage, and what with the arrangement that as far as the world knew he was unwell, he didn't have to put up with company more than once every few weeks, so he could tuck into a nice dinner and a dish of treats without upsetting any one. 

Then he would go and read with Childermass. It was amazing that he did not necessarily need another magician there, the way he'd assumed when Mr Strange had appeared. It had been wonderful to have someone who understood it, but the fact that he needed to explain more to Childermass wasn't so off-putting. Then Childermass would read poetry or old Yorkshire tales about Faerie to him. He liked that. 

After that it would be bed-time, with no more demanding question to answer than did he want sleep immediately, or to have Childermass first. He usually opted to enjoy Childermass, because even if he was a little dozy he liked Childermass to pleasure him first, but he knew he could trust Childermass. If Childermass was too tired, he'd say so, and they would cuddle up. Otherwise, he could trust Childermass to satisfy him and tuck him up to sleep. Once he himself had been too greedy, and had fallen asleep before Childermass could pleasure him, but that led to no worse thing than Childermass teasing him the next day about his eyes being bigger than his arsehole. 

 

The last period of his pregnancy was ushered in by deciding he was as big as a house and of _course_ Childermass didn't care for him, and he wanted Childermass to couple with him but he was too big. He picked a fight one evening after Childermass had been rubbing his sore ankles. 

Childermass sighed. "I really loved it when you weren't like this, sir. Doesn't mean I care for you any the less."

"Then how can you get it in me?" demanded Mr Norrell. 

After some careful attempts, Childermass said he should not like to try while Mr Norrell was in late pregnancy, but instead--hurrying to cut off a storm of tears or sulks--there was no reason at all for them not to enjoy themselves more cautiously. 

Mr Norrell sighed. He'd rather take his mind off things with vigorous fucking, but if that was off the table... He lay on his back, legs open as far as he could manage, and Childermass frigged him while teasing at his arsehole with a fingertip, and after he'd had his, he got Childermass to position him carefully so that he could suck Childermass, and after that he didn't feel even a little bit miserable. 

Time dragged. They did indulge themselves as much as they could in bed, and Childermass must have been as patient as any human creature could be with Mr Norrell, but when Mr Norrell's waters broke, they were both relieved (and rather terrified). 

Childermass told him the baby was unusually small, and that this would help. 

The thing that came out of Mr Norrell did not look like a baby. Childermass also looked rather troubled, but he explained babies often came with a caul (although he did not vouchsafe until later that this caul was unusually thick (having resisted the kitchen knife) and unusually complete). 

Mr Norrell rather hoped a stillbirth would mean he wouldn't have to deal with the whole thing, but after a while watching it, he saw a pointed thing like a tooth fix itself in the caul and rip it. 

He and Childermass did not find this encouraging. 

Finally, two small dark hands grabbed the rip in the caul, and a small black imp pulled its way free, hands prying at the horn that had made the first incision. It stood up, wobbly as a new foal, but found its feet quickly and skipt round the room in peals of laughter. 

It did not look threatening, but Mr Norrell knew it could be a danger. He cast a spell, a circle, to hold it in place--and was surprized when that worked. 

But the ground was less of an impediment than Mr Norrell's spell, and the creature rapped his hoof once, twice, thrice on the ground, and a hole filled with fire opened just in front of it. The creature laughed, and slid in. 

Mr Norrell and Childermass shared a look of relief. "Well," said Mr Norrell shakily. "At least that explains why I was eating coal." He picked up a piece of coal and cautiously touched the tip of his tongue to it. It was revolting, to his relief. 

He started crying (to his embarrassment) out of sheer nervous relief. He would not have to bring up a baby, and he would not have to worry about his emotions, and he could have his normal scholarly life resumed.

"Sh, sh, sh, I know," said Childermass, rocking him in his arms. "You were so afraid of what might happen, and you've got your life back. And me, if you want me," he added. 

That night, Mr Norrell's female organs vanished overnight. This was somewhat of a relief: he would have felt tempted to try them out otherwise, and he did not want to have to worry about pregnancy again--certainly not when he would not be so lucky in being able to avoid a long-term result!

He settled down to appreciating his ordinary male body and lack of tears. After looking up the strange fertility spell, he was fairly sure he would not fall pregnant again now back to normal. 

Really, the most inconvenient thing about the whole event was that the imp did not clear up after itself. The small hot hole, emitting sulphurous gusts, remained in place. 

After some reading, Mr Norrell discovered that the creature wanted some form of sacrifice. The hole would remain until someone came near enough to be caught. 

Mr Norrell bought an attractive Oriental screen to put in front of it, and added a spell to protect humans and animals from being caught. 

A week later, apparently hearing that Mr Norrell was no longer ill, the Fairy came back. He was in mid-rant about how ugly, stupid and improper the English magician was, incautiously in front of the Oriental screen, when the small dark claw of the imp shot out and had him by the ankle. Whether it was that the imp was unexpectedly powerful, or simply that the denizens of Faerie had little care for immortal souls and thus had few dealings with the creatures of Hell, it managed to jerk him backwards. The Fairy knocked into the screen, and (shrinking and screaming all the way) was dragged down the hole. The hole closed over him, and the room was abruptly silent. 

"Has that dealt with him, sir?" asked Childermass. 

"I very much doubt it, unfortunately," said Mr Norrell. "But judging by Fairy and diabolic time-schemes being far different to human, he may well not be back to trouble us in the next few hundred years." He smiled. "That will give us some time to ask Mr Strange for help, and rescue the lady while the Fairy is not there to keep her in his own brugh."

"Want to celebrate?" Childermass asked. 

"In what way?" Mr Norrell was not keen on most forms of celebration, particularly not involving dancing. 

"Bottle of port and a good fuck?" suggested Childermass. 

"Oh, yes please!" said Mr Norrell, before he added, "It's about seven months since you sodomised me, I may have forgotten how."

"Two glasses of port and you'll definitely remember," said Childermass, leering slightly. 

It only took him halfway down the first glass of port to rediscover his interest. He asked Childermass, a touch guiltily, whether he ever wanted to the other way round, but was relieved to hear that Childermass could certainly enjoy that as a change, but his general preference went with Norrell's.

He bent over, enjoying the way he could do that now. 

"Half a glass of port and you're anybody's," said Childermass. 

_"No,_ Childermass. Half a glass of port and I'm yours."

Childermass murmured, "Thought you were mine anyway," and Mr Norrell privately agreed, shutting his eyes and relaxing as Childermass began to work his fingers in. Cock felt even better, and he certainly did not regret the absence of the strange extra organ he'd had the loan of for his pregnancy. 

They got so enthusiastic they nearly fell off the chair, but it was worth it to have Childermass right up him whispering naughty things in his ear. Somewhere between a very thorough climax and a tingling afterglow, he forgave Mr Strange for every mis-aimed spell he had ever cast, because he doubted he'd ever have had the nerve to ask Childermass for this. And he'd never have found out that Childermass had so much tenderness for him, to comfort him when he was at his worst and most vulnerable. And he'd never have been able to admit the truth of his shame, and found both Childermass and Mr Strange willing to help him.

"You're not going to stop now I'm back to normal?" he said once they'd finished. 

_"No,_ sir," Childermass said, in that tone of voice that rolled its eyes. 

"Why?"

Childermass sat him up in the chair, straightened his clothes, and said, "Because I'm yours."

"How long for?"

Childermass bent to whisper in his ear, "Always."

"That is entirely satisfactory, Childermass. I shall do my best to deserve you."

And he did.

Even though the very strange way they had sorted things out had, according to one of Childermass' dreams, annoyed the Raven King, who had his own plans, and Childermass had had to do some very fast talking in the dream to make sure history was lining up straight. 

Norrell found this rather confusing. Apparently, the way history should have gone involved him and Mr Strange at odds. Mr Strange's wife was stolen by the Fairy, and because Mr Norrell himself was still insisting on secrecy at all costs, he did nothing to help. Mr Strange wrote a book, and Mr Norrell suppressed it. At last, he and Mr Strange were caught in a spell of Eternal Darkness cast by the Fairy, at which they promptly left the world of men. This would leave John Uskglass free to influence a free and wild English Magic that was not divided on Strangeite or Norrellite principles (Mr Norrell felt an odd sense of pride that somewhere he was a whole school of magic). 

In the dream, Childermass argued for a world that had never seen that division. Instead, Strange would argue for recklessness, and Norrell for prudence, while Childermass himself had a casting vote in terms of practicality. 

Mr Norrell would have thought very little of the dream, except he had a very strange dream he could not remember, and his early sense of veneration for the Raven King appeared to be creeping back. Also, magic seemed to be coming back. Not just the formal magic he loved, but something older, wilder, and with no respect of station. 

It was very uncomfortable to find that Childermass was doing magic, and a small and ignoble part of him was glad that Childermass was less good at it than he was. He admitted this to Childermass, who laughed, hugged him, and said, "Just as well I don't love you for your admirable qualities!"

Then Mr Strange had come back, and apologised handsomely, and John Segundus (one of the many would-be magicians he had once done his best to quell) had set up a school for magicians.

Childermass had indeed tempered the hastier fits of Norrell and Strange, as the dream had suggested. 

England's Magic was now ruled not by Norrell or Strange but by the Triumvirate. Many gentlemen and women were at first most indignant that a third part of magic should be run by a commoner, but Childermass instituted a diplomatic illness for himself as an object lesson. After three weeks of Strange's and Norrell's untempered rule careering from pillar to post, most people grudgingly admitted that "the Yorkshireman" served a purpose. 

And in this new magical England, the new magicians didn't seem to fret Mr Norrell the way they once had done. The pride with which England's magicians were beginning to look to him helped, even though he complained to Childermass about how old he felt now that the younger magicians were beginning to call him "the Father of English Magic". Childermass sniffed, and said, "It's better than being called 'The Miser of English Magic', sir."

He smiled, and said, "Will you come to bed, Childermass?" and Childermass did.


End file.
